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I’m takingthe casserole out of the oven when the front doorbell rings. I put the dish on the hot pad in the center of the table, walk down the hallway to the front door, and peer through the peephole. The sun is low in the sky, creating a halo around Troy’s hair. But even though his features aren’t lit, I can tell it’s him. Butterscotch is by his side.
I unlock the door and step aside to let them in. I kneel next to Butterscotch and stroke him. It’s funny how something as simple as stroking a cute dog can leave me feeling more grounded.
“I made a casserole for dinner,” I say, still fussing over Butterscotch. “I mean, unless you’ve already eaten. It’s nothing fancy. I thought we could eat first and then start figuring out the renovation plans.”
“I haven’t eaten. Thanks.”
I straighten to find Troy watching me with a smile. My heart picks up its pace. While I was in prison, I would hear other inmates bemoan how much they missed sex. I swear, some of them were counting the days until they got out to get laid again.
That hadn’t been my problem. I figured my husband had broken me so badly, I was beyond repair. But the effect Troy has on me makes me wonder if I was wrong. Maybe I’m not quite as broken as I believed. Not all my bits were smashed into a million tiny pieces and discarded.
And that’s…that’s kind of a relief. Not that I’m in any rush for that. Not yet.
I lead Troy and Butterscotch into the kitchen. The table has already been set, and I take a seat. Troy follows suit. Butterscotch sits dutifully on the floor by his feet.
“He’s welcome to hang out in the living room,” I tell Troy and pass him the serving spoon. “The carpet has to be more comfortable than the cold linoleum.”
A chuckle rumbles from deep in Troy’s chest. A laugh I never get tired of hearing. “You might be right about that.” He scoops some casserole onto his plate and hands the spoon back to me. “Have you ever owned a dog?”
“My grandmother had one when I was growing up. A Yorkie. She was really sweet and friendly. Butterscotch would’ve loved her.” I move the casserole dish closer to me and spoon some of it onto my plate.
“I spoke to a therapist at the Veterans Center this morning.” His words are spoken with caution, as if he’s afraid he’s about to step on a land mine. He might have avoided the land mine, but that doesn’t stop the warning siren in my head.
“I don’t suppose you were talking to them becauseyouhave issues you want help resolving?” I ask with a faux casualness.
Troy raises his eyebrow in aWhat-do-you-think?gesture.
I respond with a sorry-not-happening shake of my head. “I told you I can’t go to therapy. Therapy means you have to tell the person all your secrets. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s a reason they’re called secrets.”
A fractured silence floats in the space between us, a tug-of-war between freedom and impossibility.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”
“Fair enough. Robyn won’t share with anyone what you tell her, and that includes me. The only reason she’d have to tell anything to the authorities is if she’s concerned you’re a risk to yourself or someone else.” He looks me squarely in the eyes, and it feels like he’s ripping off my layers and staring at my naked truth. “Are you a risk to yourself or someone else?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but I shake my head anyway. “No. I’m not.”
“You don’t have to tell me what happened to you, Jess. But you do deserve to get your life back from whoever or whatever tried to steal it from you. All you have to do is meet with Robyn and see if she’ll be a good fit. And for her to determine if you do have PTSD. If you still feel uncomfortable about seeing her after that, I’ll drop it.”
I push the casserole around with my fork. “And how long will I have to see her for?” I don’t bother to look up.
“For however long it takes. Until you no longer have flashbacks and nightmares and any other PTSD-related symptoms.”
For all I know, that could take months. Or years. I can’t afford that.
I open my mouth to tell him no.
“The state will cover the expense,” Troy says, his rebuttal faster than my refusal.
“Really?” That was the last thing I expected—that the state will pay for it.
